Last time I was here I was lying down on my back in our lawn. It was midsummer evening, my favorite hours of the year, and in strong contrast to my rural childhood I was lying down with my head three feet from concrete, four feet from where the street’s druggie had passed out, 30 feet from a brewery, and 50 yards from a notorious dive bar. I lay down on the grass and looked into the sky and talked with Eric, the air shaded from yellow to red to dusk, like swimming in a lake we floated on the light and standing up was like diving into its depths.
Then I blinked and was here, sitting on the couch three months later with graduate school graduation, a new job, volunteer trip, birthday parties, dinners, early mornings, late nights, deadlines and responsibilities fulfilled tieing together the yawning chasm of the the last three months.
I’ve heard that the mind is like a house, with rooms and closets and cupboards, locked and unlocked - and I’m sitting in the middle of the house at an old chest full of keys, and I’m pretty sure I just dropped the last handful of reeses pieces in the chest.